the tangled roots in between
by the general girl
Summary: I love you as certain dark things are to be loved: in secret, between the shadow and the soul. Rhysand before, during, and after the books.
1. before

**note/tw:** Spoilers for ACOMAF, and mentions of rape. Rhysand's POV before, during, and after _A Court of Thorns and Roses_ and _A Court of Mist and Fury_. Credits to Pablo Neruda for the poem in the summary (XVII, i do not love you...).

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THE BEGINNING AND THE END, AND ALL

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 **the tangled roots in between**

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It begins as a nightmare.

This is not new: Amarantha's hands around his throat, her body pressing his into the bed, her touch marking his skin, segueing into the darkness, into his wings being pinned bloody to the sheets, until Rhysand can no longer tell what is real and what is not. It makes no difference to him; his nightmares have been given flesh decades ago.

No, this time the difference is in the absence of blood, and failure, and screams. Instead, Rhysand finds himself enveloped in the quiet of a winter night, the only sound the soft crackling of a fire in the hearth. There are no thoughts but his own in his head, no tangled minds to control, no words that aren't his and his alone. He could have wept from the quiet of it.

Rhysand doesn't know how long the dream lasts, but for the first night in decades, he finds refuge in sleep.

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Those in the Spring Court wear the masks of animals, and sometimes Rhysand lets himself feel envy. Masks of metal and glass would have been a welcome reprieve from his own, shaped from lies and deceit and never-ending pretend. But now he's being maudlin, and Mor would have laughed at him and Cassian would have beaten the dramatics out of him, _because because because_ if this is what he has to do, if ripping his soul in half is enough to save them, to save Velaris, Rhys will gladly abstain from the light of day forever.

So he fixes the sneer on his face, looks down at the cowering fey that Amarantha would have him execute, and prays to the Cauldron that he'll be able to make it painless and quick.

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The first time Amarantha takes him to bed—the first time she rapes him—he feels like splitting his skin apart, but he bears it…bears it…because she had already torn through his mind and his powers and his heart, so this invasion of his body is just one more thing to sacrifice, one more thing to (un)willingly give.

The first time Amarantha takes him to bed, he makes her scream with pleasure until she can't distinguish the salt of his tears from the salt of his sweat.

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The dreams continue, and he takes his rest in these pockets of peace when he can. Sometimes he's dozing in a wood with washed out edges, sometimes he's back in that safe, dark room. Brief glimpses of a place not underground, precious pieces of a life not lived underneath Amarantha's oppressive weight.

Rhys doesn't know where these visions are coming from, but there isn't a lot left of himself to question any respite granted to him these days. Maybe they're only foggy illusions from the Cauldron, maybe they're delusions formed by a sleep starved mind, but then one night…One night he sees a pair of hands. A human woman's calloused hands, long fingers holding a brush gently, painting small yellow flowers on a worn table in front of her. Rhys watches, and he can feel the quiet care she takes in laying the color down on scarred wood.

The feeling is so simple, so pure, that it's profound.

Rhysand wakes with a sob halfway out of his throat, and stares unblinkingly at his own hands—shining and immaculate and as much a lie as the rest of him—until his eyes begin to burn.

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He begins to notice the woman behind the eyes, and they're not dreams any longer but a real life lived; strands of brown hair burnished with gold falling in front of her face, the strength of her hands clenched around a bow. Little scraps of a human existence. He gets a small taste of starvation, and discovers that the respite he finds in the small cottage is just as much a prison for her as this mountain is for him.

Despite it all, she still paints, and Rhys hoards these scraps of her existence, wishing he could do more, wishing he could fill the emptiness in her belly and quell the whispers of worry and fear in her head. She's given him this, her life and her mind, and he feels guilty—he feels dirty for sneaking through her thoughts like so. It doesn't matter that he'd never intended for this to start, intent doesn't matter.

With him, with everything that he's done, Rhys knows intent never will.

So for the first time in decades, Rhysand lets himself remember his wings, remember flying. Briefly, in only half thoughts, so Amarantha doesn't catch him, he dreams of the velvet of the night sky and fills his ears with the sound of rushing wind, the dark quiet of possibility stretching over his head like stars every night he had snuck out of the House of Wind.

He takes these feelings—as cherished as the truth of Velaris—and carefully tries to send them to the woman who paints, who is able to offer him these short moments of rest and peace. If he can do even a fraction of what she has done for him…Rhys hopes that she finds peace, whomever and wherever she may be.

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When Rhysand snaps awake from the dream—her nightmare—her fear, her _scent_ still clings to him so strongly that darkness has begun to pool at his hands. Half-awake, half-blind with his own terror, Rhys clenches the soft, warm body next to him to reassure himself that she is still _alive alive alive_.

He's already pulling her to his chest when he realizes a second too late that the spill of red hair is wrong, that the scent is wrong, that even though the vision was startlingly clear it was still a dream, but Amarantha is already awake and murmuring _you just can't get enough, can you, you whore_ into his ear, and her lips have found his throat and her teeth is drawing blood, and she's pushing him onto his back and god Rhys hates himself for slipping, for letting this muddle the remnants of the dream, to lose the scent of the woman with the painter's hands to the sick, familiar smell of Amarantha's arousal instead.

He's only half-here, and the bitch queen's hands on him are so much worse and so much more bearable all at once because he realizes the reason for the clarity of the dream, realizes that the woman is _here_ , in Prythian, and he wants to rip Amarantha's hands from his body and roar at the irony of it all; he wants to find her and at the same time he hopes that they never cross paths, because Rhysand had wished her peace but instead, instead he has inadvertently led her into a land of monsters.

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Underneath it all, the scent of her haunts him all day. A whisper of summer rain, a night breeze before the storm. It reminds him so much of home that he aches.

 **tbc**

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 **note** : Because Rhysand makes my heart hurt in a way that a character hasn't in a long, long while. There's so much potential with his POV and I feel like I didn't do him justice? Writing is definitely not like riding a bike. Concrit is and always will be appreciated!

 **edited 8/8/16**


	2. during

**note:** Sorry this took so long, May's just been a crazy month (I just graduated university)! Stanza below is from Pablo Neruda's Sonnet XVII.

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I love you as the plant that never blooms  
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;  
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,  
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

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 **two**

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 _Calanmai, Calanmai, Calanmai_

He paces from one edge of his bed chamber to the other, the word a relentless echo in his head. The green, rolling hills of the Spring Court is a familiar haunt for his nightmares, but last night Rhys had not been seeing them through his own eyes.

Calanmai.

He hadn't observed or participated in its rites since before Under the Mountain. He hadn't set foot inside the Spring Court's lands since even longer. He'd had no inclination to revisit either the place or its lord, but last night…

Last night had given him a way to find her.

Rhys abruptly stops his pacing and sits down heavily on the edge of his bed. His back aches, as if the burden (but never a _burden_ ) of his wings is still a tangible thing. He knows he could look for her during the festivities tomorrow night, but he isn't sure if he should.

Actually, he _is_ sure—he knows he shouldn't, prays to the Cauldron and every deity henceforth that she's safe, and that it wasn't the compulsion of his dreams that had drawn her over the Wall and through the veil into Prythian. Rhys has let Amarantha use him in so many different ways, hurt so many different people, but he doesn't think he could stand being the cause for the loss of her freedom.

The silk of his sheets is cool underneath his skin, and the fire burning in the hearth smells strongly of pine. His senses pick out every detail around him , from the guards outside his door to Amarantha's servants talking in hushed tones corridors away, but it all fades under the whisper of her voice, and it's her scent that dogs his steps every day.

Rhysand knows for a fact that he shouldn't, but he also knows that he doesn't have the willpower to stay away.

He tries to convince himself that he only needs one glimpse, one word, a single look, but although Rhys has learned how to be a very convincing liar over the decades, he has yet to successfully fool himself.

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"You will find me these traitors, or it will be another long half a century before you're allowed to venture from my halls."

Rhysand murmurs a quiet assent from where he's kneeling on the stone floor. He can sense Amarantha's cool amusement from where she lounges on her chaise, her face shadowed. His lies had worked, but now he would have to find faeries to die for the part of saboteur. Another sin, another stain.

"Now come, my pet."

Rhysand rises and meets Amarantha's eyes, shining with anticipation in the candlelight, and curves his lips into a familiar smirk. He injects languid, predatory grace into his movements as he stalks closer to the other Fae and fakes lust in his eyes, in the cruel tilt of his mouth when he's close enough to touch. Inside, even after so many years, so many nights, Rhys feels like retching.

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She keeps him all night and most of a day. When she's finally satisfied, Rhys can only half-remember himself. He was sure that he'd gotten past it _—_ the shame? the disgust?—long ago, but Amarantha had been relentless, holding sway over him, under him, through his skin. By the time she is finished, it is almost sundown, and Calanmai will soon be well underway.

It's another punishment, because now he would have to winnow directly to Spring if he had any hope of arriving before the festivities get too out of hand. He would be denied the day, denied even the false sense of freedom the wind and the skies would have given him.

Rhysand doesn't care.

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He doesn't care because Amarantha doesn't know that he'd resigned himself to the underground a long time ago, that just being able to see the colors of dusk is a small miracle, that even in the lands of his second-most enemy the slight breeze on his skin makes him come alive, feel renewed—makes him remember strolls along the banks of the Sidra with his sister on calm nights, reminds him of the soft rush of wind right before his mother takes flight...

That even just the warmth of the setting sun on his face gives him back a small, fragmented piece of the self that he'd lost.

Rhysand takes a deep breath; he'd winnowed to the edge of Spring's territory, far away enough from the festivities that he's alone. He tries to take in the tall grass, the gently rolling hills, the rustle of willows along a distant bank, but it overwhelms him until he realizes the wet on his face are tears, that his eyes have inadvertently closed.

The sunlight paints the back of his eyes the gold of his sister's favorite dress, the gold of the mosaic tiles that'd lined the immense windows of his mother's chambers, the gold of bales of hay in a barn...the gold of a human woman's sun-warmed hair. Rhys gives himself just a minute, and when he opens his eyes again his cheeks are dry and the mask is back in place.

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The walk towards the largest cluster of bonfires doesn't take long, even though Rhys takes his time savoring the disappearing daylight. He's trying to be as inconspicuous as possible without actually hiding who he is, but the Fae recognize him, and no matter if it's fear, hatred, or disgust telegraphed through their eyes and their scent, they all clear a path for him.

Rhys ignores them. Instead, he sweeps the crowd for any sign of that tell-tale gold-brown, or even a hint of her scent. He's edging a little too close to the crush of faeries dancing around the largest bonfire, and he thinks he glimpses red and familiar russet for a split second, but Rhysand doesn't care, because he feels it...a pull, a soft tug, a beckoning from the Cauldron, or the Fates, to something greater than he'd ever had the privilege to know...

Rhysand has an inkling, then, of what this could be about, of what the dreams and the scent and the painful pounding of his heart could have all meant, but he furiously denies it, because this world isn't a good world, is not a world where he wants his ma— _her_ to suffer.

And all of a sudden there it is—faint, but there: a hint of storm winds, out of place among the Spring Court. Everything disappears in a rush around him, and Rhysand arrows in on that scent, his power instinctively reaching out, effortlessly ripping through the minds around him, their hosts oblivious to the intrusion. Rifling...rifling...Every step brings him closer, and Rhysand feels the dread and the elation all at once.

 _The magic will be strong this year...I wonder if I'll be chosen...Ha, I can't wait to take my pick of the leftovers...This curse..._

 _What a delicious looking human..._

The last thought had come from a group of picts hidden by a cluster of trees a little ways away where—Rhy's nostrils flare—the scent is strongest, not only because of proximity, but because that sharp, clean smell of rain is now twined with the sour twinge of fear and panic.

His power peaks, and Rhysand almost snarls, the mask slipping for just a second because the woman that he'd glimpsed in the pict's mind—

 _We will have a human feast tonight, in every way..._

He will mist them where they stand, damn all the consequences, he will take them and peel them apart piece by piece—

Rhys steps around the copse of trees, and there she is.

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 **tbc**

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 **note:** For those of you that are still following along, I hope it's met your expectations and that it still reads like Rhys. Thank you so much for reading!


	3. an occurance

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I remembered you with my soul clenched  
in that sadness of mine that you know.

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 **three**

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"There you are, I've been looking for you."

Rhys is barely aware of the words coming out of his mouth. There is momentum, and movement, and sound, and then her skin is warm against his hands and her scent is all around him and this is it, this is the freedom of flying and he is falling, falling, falling. For a split second everything aligns in Rhys' universe, and then it's gone.

Rhysand is torn between fury and exhilaration, and then the anger wins as the picts pale and scent the air with fear. He grabs the emotion and steadies himself with it, but he can't stop himself from touching her, his arms settling around her shoulders and drawing her close. The heat of her, even through cloth, is startling. Startlingly real, all of a sudden.

"Thank you for finding her for me. Enjoy the Rite." The faeries scramble, and Rhysand enjoys her warmth for just a second longer before she's pulling away and he finally gets to see the entirety of her features.

She's so ordinarily mortal that Rhysand wants to laugh. So beautifully, wonderfully, mortal. Her eyes—gray? blue? —widen when she finally sees him, and he can't help it, he has to stay for a while longer, try and spark more of the emotions playing rapidly across her face.

 _The most beautiful man_ …

He wants to automatically correct her, and couldn't she see that she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen? He forgets himself and snatches the thought away before it's fully formed, until he remembers that while her mind is so open to him that he doesn't even have to cross the threshold to hear her thoughts, he is still utterly closed to her perusal.

He's to pretend to be a stranger, when he feels like she already knows him down to the depths of his bones.

(A wistful construction; one that he'd made too real, he realizes now.)

"What's a mortal woman doing here on Fire Night?"

She swallows, eyes moving rapidly between him and the bonfire, and backs away. Good, good because it meant that his mask is still in place. Good, even if her fear inspires a twinge in his gut. It's not enough to make him walk away though, not yet.

"My friends brought me."

A lie.

"And who are your friends?"

"Two ladies."

Rhys is barely paying attention to the conversation; he isn't even sure why he's asking her questions that he already knows the answers to, other than that it's an excuse to keep her with him, each step he takes bringing him inexorably closer to her orbit. She's so easy to read, and he spends the seconds memorizing the lines of her face and the way the firelight reflects in her eyes, wondering why this human, why this girl, why the Cauldron had seen fit to drag her here at all.

Wondering why the gods would torment him once again, if she is what he thinks she is.

More words; the exchange continues, dragged out by him. He finds himself circling her, and her eyes never leave his face. She has the direct gaze of a predator, someone used to fighting and fending and never cowering in the face of something with sharper teeth than she.

"Aren't humans usually terrified of us? And aren't you, for that matter, supposed to keep to your side of the Wall?"

Her lips tremble, but still she says, "I've known them my whole life. I've never had anything to fear from them."

Terrified, yet still unafraid.

More lies, but Rhysand pauses, because she _is_ here with someone, and he can't believe they would be careless enough to let the mortal wander on her own during Calanmai.

"And yet they brought you to the Great Rite and abandoned you."

"They went to get refreshments."

The refreshments had been cleared away a while ago, and a genuine smile curves Rhysand's lips at her unintentional slip. A terrible liar, even by anybody else's standards.

The girl finally looks away from his face, and takes another step back, searching for an escape. He'd clearly been here for far too long, and he never should have spoken to her, never should have made this any harder. Another selfish mistake.

But.

Rhys couldn't help it, he offers her his arm, "I'm afraid the refreshments are a long way off. It might be a while before they return. May I escort you somewhere in the meantime?"

Her refusal isn't a surprise, and neither is his disappointment, but he manages to leave her with a succinct goodbye, "Enjoy the Rite, then. Try and stay out of trouble."

"So you're not part of the Spring Court?"

He tries to tell himself that he hadn't hurried back in any way at the sound her voice. She apparently hadn't been ready to let him go yet, either.

The question isn't a surprise, but it tightens the skin at the corner of his eyes and clogs his throat with unwanted memories.

(The remembrance of blood in a meadow, blood in the halls.)

"Do I look like I'm part of the Spring Court?" Rhys laughs, low under his breath. If she had been anyone else, she would have taken a single glance at the expression on his face and ran.

"No, I'm not part of the noble Spring Court. And glad of it."

The fear dissipates, her brows furrowing the slightest bit in irritation, "Why are you here, then?"

He had been right; the mortal has a bite to her. He wonders what she would say if he'd told her that he was here for her, that whatever compelled him to her had been enough for him to risk venturing from that damnable mountain for the first time in years. Would she run, then? Or would she step closer?

"Because all monsters have been let out of their cage tonight, no matter what court they belong to. So I may roam wherever I wish until dawn."

And because it really is time for him to go, Rhys adds an extra edge to his smile, ending the conversation. Even when it fades as she hurries away, he watches her until she has slipped seamlessly back into the colorful crowd.

Where his hands had touched her, the skin feels taut. Branded.

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 **tbc**

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 **note:** I really struggled with this one. I'm still not happy with it, but sometimes you just need to move on. Thank you for reading, and any concrit or comments is always appreciated! Top is another Pablo Neruda poem ( _we have lost even this twilight_...).


	4. null

**note:** Null chapters are short fragments (of a thought).

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He takes ruthless pleasure in ripping through their minds, with no delicacy or attention to pain. Not just because he'd seen what they would have done to her, seen that they would have taken her apart, and used her as he has been used, and wasted her heart and rent her capable hands into shreds—

No, gods, it's because for once there is no shame. He'd stopped feeling the guilt a long time ago, because guilt is for those who can still atone, and be forgiven. But the shame, it rests heavy in his heart every time Amarantha has him invade a mind or break a spirit. With these picts though—there is only satisfaction in hurting those who would have hurt her, satisfaction in defying Amarantha in even this small, pathetic way.

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After he drags the picts to Amarantha, after she is done tearing them apart, after she fucks him for his success, Rhys sits in his suite alone and smothers the fire and the torchlight until he is cradled in darkness. In the familiar quiet, he closes his eyes and tries to recall every detail of her face, cast in the flickering shadows of the bonfires raging high in the distance. Armor for the coming decades.


End file.
